


The Magic of the Theatre

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballet, Christmas, M/M, The Nutcracker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: A little peak into Draco and Harry's festive season.





	The Magic of the Theatre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlpost](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=owlpost).



> Dear **owlpost** , here's just a wee bit of something to say Happy Hols and (belated) birthday! I wanted to write something for you, and then your tumblr got my inspired! I hope that you enjoy it. Thank you so much for being a bright light of positivity and kindness in the fandom, for sharing your tremendous talent, and for doing all of this while being an assertive badass witch that shuts down all guff. <33333
> 
>  
> 
> Huge thanks and a trillion hugs to **aibidil** for the speedy beta!  <3

Harry grasps Draco’s dry, steady hand in his as the house lights dim and the music begins abruptly. Th, red, velvet curtains, are still drawn when the maestra makes the first emphatic move of her baton.

Harry’s heart jolts as high, jaunty notes resonate from the strings. Next to him, he can feel Draco relaxing into his seat. Harry doesn’t know how Draco can settle in so comfortably. Harry’s on the edge of his seat, literally, waiting for the overture to end so that he can see the sets and costumes, so different each year, with new artists and designers bringing their own styles and ideas. This is the fourth year they’ve come here in the run-up to Christmas, and every time Harry has left the theatre enchanted by the different palettes and textures, the degree to which the space is filled or sparsely adorned, the way the nuances are captured by the perfectly controlled lights. 

And then, of course, there’s the dancing itself. Harry would never have thought ballet would be his bag. And, who knows, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just this ballet. This time each year that he and Draco take just for themselves before the cool hospitality of the Manor on Christmas Eve and the merry chaos of the Burrow on the day itself. 

The curtain finally draws back, and Harry smiles widely as two children dance-run out to centre stage, creating a picture of playfulness as their parents follow them with patient, loving looks on their smiling faces. 

They’re fewer than fifteen seconds in and Harry is already overwhelmed by the multi-media spectacle he’s seeing and hearing, but in the best possible way. Now comes the tricky part: staying focussed on the stage without turning to look at Draco to gauge his reaction each time a new costume is debuted or one of the children completes a particularly tricky move. He knows he won’t succeed completely, but he’ll do his best. 

xXx

After the curtain draws on the first act, Harry turns eagerly to Draco.

“Are you enjoying it so far?”

“Of course. The Rat King’s mask is gorgeous. And I think this might be the best Clara we’ve seen.”

Harry listens happily to Draco’s thoughts on the first act throughout the interval. This is as much a part of the night out as anything. 

For the next fortnight, and even into the coming months, Harry knows that Draco is likely to mention the parts he likes best at random. Whenever Draco does this, Harry can feel warmth in his heart swelling beyond the confines of his chest with the knowledge that he himself is a part of that memory. That he was holding onto Draco’s hand when he witnessed or heard something that impressed itself so profoundly on his mind that it just pops into his mind, unbidden, even months later.

Sometimes Draco compares aspects of the versions they have seen together. Harry is always impressed with how he never seems to reduce any of them in his comparisons. He simply contrasts this or that, his analytic nature evident.

As the music strikes up once more, Harry and Draco resume their positions facing the stage. Harry isn’t sure how, but his anticipation actually increases. He knows his resolve not to look at Draco will crumble utterly by the Arabian Dance. 

He disappoints even his own meagre standard by turning to glimpse the look on Draco’s face the moment the curtain is drawn again. The set is unreal, quite literally. A warm, pinkish-red backdrop is adorned with paintings of huge, softly rounded sweets in light pinks and whites that make Harry dizzy as his eyes dart around, trying to take them all in. 

For his part, Harry never compares the versions across the years. But that doesn’t mean he pays any less attention. He notices differences, of course. It’s just that he thinks those very differences are what makes each show magical. As the Nutcracker offers Clara a seat of honour from which to watch the dances, Harry recalls some of Dumbledore’s words from so long ago, and agrees: this is a type of magic he’d never been exposed to at Hogwarts. 

Draco, who’s been quite still aside from occasionally re-crossing his legs to balance himself, gives Harry’s hand two little squeezes as the Arabian Dance begins. Harry looks over at him, but Draco’s gaze is still on the stage. From his profile, though, Harry can see that he’s smiling. Well, Draco’s got Harry’s number, and no mistake. Quick as anything, though, Harry trains his eyes back on the stage to watch the dance unfold. During a particularly striking lift, which sees one dancer hold his partner over his head in a graceful arched position for what feels like an eternity, Harry’s muscles seize up and he can’t help but steal another look at Draco, who nods his head back toward the stage as if to say: “What are you looking at me for? You’re missing it.” Harry follows the cue and lets the dance pull him under. He’s bowled over by the sheer strength and trust and practice both dancers display as they move together. 

xXx

When the show is over, Harry applauds until the skin on his hands stings and his upper arms burn. He wishes it could go on and on, but he also can’t wait to relive it through Draco’s analysis.

As they inch their way out of the building behind hundreds of slow-moving people, Draco praises the sets. 

“…and the shift from the warm reds and pinks of the Land of Sweets to the cool greens and silvers in the woods... What a masterclass in contrast.”

Harry thinks that, just maybe, one of the reasons he loves Draco so much is that he says snooty things like that. 

Once they clear the theatre, a rush of cold hits them, and Harry pulls Draco by one arm down the street and into a quiet nook away from Muggle eyes. For a moment, Harry just looks at him, before tilting his head in an unspoken question. Draco gives him a nod of approval and braces himself. Harry, in a full three-piece suit, jumps into Draco’s arms, wrapping his legs around Draco’s hips and slinging his arms over his shoulders, before planting a chaste, playful peck on his mouth. 

“Very balletic. You’ll be wanting me to lift you above my head now, I suppose?”

Harry nods emphatically. “Definitely. Take us home and we can practice.”

So Draco does.


End file.
